


Satisfaction

by spiffycups



Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 05:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12904869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiffycups/pseuds/spiffycups
Summary: An outtake of mahendra's life where amarsena lives.





	Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iwearplaids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwearplaids/gifts).



On days when it is cloudy, Mahendra likes to sit by the biggest window in the palace. He is a quieter child than either of his parents were when they were eleven years old, and he likes to sit by himself and draw. Mahendra draws the lovely green fields of Kuntala where he spends one third of his year, and the colossal wood-crafted chariots of Mahishmathi, and the dancing sculptures of their temples. It used to trouble Devasena that he drew so many portraits of Kali mid-battle, but it was only a phase, and he moved on to drawing fruits soon enough.

His teacher told him to draw to enjoy the process of drawing, but Mahendra secretly likes the way Appa’s face lights up when he presents him with a drawing of Lakshmi, his favourite elephant. Settling down with his brushes and white-dyed paper, Mahendra thinks he will draw the swans of Kuntala today.

It rains softly, drops falling on the top of the window, sliding slowly, lazily down to the bottom. If the droplets peeked in, they would find a child bent over, tongue sticking out the side of his lip, black curls bouncing as he drew long lines and shaded them in hastily. He likes to get the outlines done first and later work the details. Amma does it in reverse- she says you have to have the details nailed down before you work on the fluff. He is very nervous when she inspects his work. It takes a lot to impress her, she nitpicks every stroke and colour depth, and Mahendra would coin her his biggest critic if he knew the word critic and its meaning.

As he finishes the lightest outline of a pair of swans, he hears anklets advancing in his direction. Inwardly groaning, he shifts so he presents his back to the room, hunched over and drawing even faster. He hopes the lady visitor will go away. A flash of lightning illuminates long shadows of sarees and stern shoulders, the edges of the shadows almost touching him where he sits cross-legged.

“Child you must use a mat. Sitting on the bare floor will give you colds.” Mahendra rolls his eyes, his mother picks the worst times to scold him. He scuttles onto the carpet a foot behind him, and pulls his canvas to him. Mahendra doesn’t like that he is so far away from his rain-drenched window, but he can still see the tops of the wet trees and he supposes that is some consolation.

Devasena has apparently resolved to lecture him. “It is mid-morning and your glass of milk is turning to curd. Why didn’t you drink it?” she puts down a tumbler of warmed milk by his side, sitting in front of him, back to the rain. “Drink up!”

Mahendra dutifully swallows, feeling better by the warmth flowing through him. He smiles shyly at his mother, who is dressed as he likes best- a soft blue saree (he likes cuddling her when she’s wearing it, it makes him feel safe and happy), she has her hair in a three-way braid that swings at her butt, and she isn’t wearing more than one piece of gold on any of her face or body parts. It is difficult to win at wrestling when your opponent complains you are driving their nosering into their nostril, and in the momentary gap when you back off mumbling apologies they cheat by pinning you down onto the bed. ‘Today I will win.’ He thinks secretly and smiles to himself.

“See! You should drink your milk, it makes you feel happier.” She has misinterpreted the cause of his smile. But Mahendra isn’t trained by his father’s spies and diplomats for nothing. He lets her think this, and plans his guerilla attack. For now, he is trying to get the curves of the swans’ beaks right. She peers into his canvas and he watches her fighting a smile, trying to be the stern grownup who is a ruthless judge and reserved admirer. She has brought her own book, reading up on new bows and strings, and they settle into a comfortable silence. ‘This is nice’, thinks Mahendra to himself, wetting his brush. ‘Amma is always so much like a hurricane, and Appa is always boisterous at me. I like this.’ They have tried to make him read books and watch plays, but he prefers the paint-box to the theater box, and the only book he likes to read is The Art of Art, a gigantic book that he has been reading for three years and only just finished a quarter.

The rain is getting louder, more confident in the noise it is creating. He looks over his canvas, trying to spot mistakes. Bending over the corner, he starts to correct the shading. Devasena puts down her book and lays on her stomach, face propped up on her hands as she watches the rain splattering over the training grounds. “Mahe! What do you think about drawing the oceans?” she ventures tentatively.

Mahendra puts down his brush, hands trembling and tears forming at the inner edges of his eyes. ‘How could she ask?!’ screams a voice in his head, and he thinks it’s his grandmother’s garbled voice, but he can’t think very well because now all he can see and hear is water rushing down, surrounding him, engulfing him in its volume, and he is slowly losing direction and strength as it bogs him down-

Amma is rubbing his back, singing into his ear. He hears the tune and remembers it from nights when he tossed and turned, unable to sleep and unwilling to face his demons. The song lilts gently, rising on one line and falling on the next, and she rocks him in her lap in time with the tune. He hears heavy breathing in the room and startles, looking around; but it’s only the two of them. Amma had made the guards go away (but it’s no secret they know their prince is a scared boy, a voice in his head pipes up- Mahendra wipes it away, he will deal with it later) and he realizes it is him who is breathing so loudly!

He swallows his breaths, gulping air in his throat, leaning against his mother’s chest. He knows it isn’t normal to sit in your mother’s lap when you’re eleven years old, but needs must.

“I’m sorry, my golden boy.” She says, when he has stopped gasping. “I’m very sorry.”

Mahendra can’t see her face from where he sits, but he thinks she sounds sad. He doesn’t know what to say. He picks up her hand and strokes it, kissing her palm.

“Does it really scare you that much?” she asks him. Her curiosity is winning over her reservations, and he is feeling better now, so he tries to answer.

“Yes, Amma.” He slides off her lap, suddenly overcome with embarrassment. “I am trying to think about how to say it.” Mahendra thought long and hard, fiddling with his brush while she waited. “The water is very big, and I am very small. It is everywhere, and I am inside it. Caught.” Mahendra suddenly wishes he could run away, far far away from having to talk about his feelings. He feels the tears running down his cheek and wishes he wasn’t like this. But amma, his amma, she knows everything, and she picks up from where he left off and makes it better.

“I think I understand, Mahe. I felt the same when I first came here with your father. The elephants you keep drawing and giving appa? They used to scare me, those monumental atrocities towering over my little boat.” She giggles untimely, and Mahendra can’t help but join in. They giggle imagining her tiny boat paddling into the ocean of Mahishmathi’s harbor, and the country girl who had only seen wild elephants rampaging her forests being worshipped and given tributes in stone and wood, and they giggle some more at the sheer ridiculousness of this country.

“Shh, stop laughing, it’s not prim and proper.” Instructs Mahendra, mimicking Kattappa’s gravelly tone and drooping frown. “Princes do not act _silly_.” Devasena doubled over, clutching her stomach. Mahendra did not talk much, but when he did, she enjoyed every word of their conversations.

“Where is Appa?” Mahendra asks finally, cheeks flushed and hair tousled.

“Out hunting. We’ve got the palace to ourselves. What do you want to do?”

“Finish painting.” He turns back to his canvas, stretching his legs out and picking up his brush again. The swans look out onto the rippling water, their white feathers smoothly poised, the very picture of calm, contrasted with the tremulous environment of waving trees, rippling currents, and floating leaves. Devasena stretches out a hand to ruffle his curls, but withdraws it, smiling softly at the sight of the boy laving over his art. She finds her husband's focus in archery replicated in their son’s work, their concentration and satisfaction flowing from their mind to their hands, aligning their hands and steadying their fingers, fingers pulling and pushing at strings and brushes until they hit perfection, until it is just right. It is obvious he will be as great as his father. She also thinks he will be just as good.

**Author's Note:**

> For @iwearplaids for doing well in uni and keeping up her part of the bargain! :D


End file.
